Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean Koontz
all, an Alpha-class member of the New Race, with superb language skills.
She read Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, and when she finished it, she did something that she had not done before in her weeks of life. She wept.
The story was about the power of love, the nobility of self-sacrifice, and the horrors of revolution in the name of political ideology, among other things.
Erika understood the concept of love and found it appealing, but she didn’t know if she would ever feel it. The New Race was supposed to value reason, to eschew emotion, to reject superstition.
She had heard Victor say that love was superstition. One of the Old Race, he’d made himself New. He claimed that perfect clarity of mind was a pleasure greater than any mere sentiment.
Nevertheless, Erika found herself intrigued by the concept of love and longed to experience it.
She found hope in the fact that she was capable of tears. Her built-in disposition toward reason at the expense of emotion had not prevented her from identifying with the tragic lawyer who, at the end of Dickens’s novel, went to the guillotine in place of another man.
The lawyer had sacrificed himself to ensure that the woman he loved would have happiness with the man she loved. That man was the one whose name the lawyer had assumed and in whose place he had been executed.
Even if Erika was capable of love, she would not be capable of self-sacrifice, for it violated the proscription against suicide that had been embedded in every member of the New Race. Therefore, she was in awe of this capacity in ordinary human beings.
As for revolution…A day would come when Victor would give the command, and the New Race living secretly among the Old would pour down upon humanity a storm of terror unprecedented in history.
She’d not been created to serve in the front lines of that war, only to be a wife to Victor. When the time came, she supposed that she would be as ruthless as her maker had created her to be.
If they knew what she was, ordinary humans would consider her a monster. Members of the Old Race weren’t her brothers and sisters.
Yet she admired much about them and, in truth, envied some of their gifts.
She suspected that it would be a mistake to let Victor know that her interest in the arts of the Old Race had evolved into admiration. In his view, they deserved only contempt. If she could not sustain that contempt, Erika Five could always be activated.
As noon drew near, when she was certain that the household staff had cleaned the master suite and made the bed, she went upstairs.
If the maids had found something extraordinary or just peculiar in the bedroom, if they had uncovered even a few rat droppings, she would have been told. Whatever had been in the bedroom the previous night must not be there now.
She prowled the suite anyway, listening for furtive sounds, looking behind furniture.
In the night, gripped by a surprising fear of the unknown, she had retreated. Fear, an important survival mechanism, had not been entirely denied to the New Race.
Superstition, on the other hand, was uncontestable proof of a weak mind. Victor had no tolerance for superstition. Those with weak minds would be recalled, terminated, replaced.
The most innocent-seeming superstition—such as a belief that ill fortune attended every Friday the thirteenth—could open a door in the mind to consideration of larger supernatural issues. The most essential purpose of Victor’s revolution was to complete the work of modernity and create a race of absolute materialists.
Erika searched the suite to quell the quasi-superstitious dread that had seized her the previous night and that still lingered. When she found nothing untoward, her confidence returned.
She enjoyed a long hot shower.
Members of the New Race, even Alphas like her, were encouraged to develop a keen appreciation for simple physical pleasures that could serve as an inoculation against emotions. Emotions themselves could be a form of pleasure, but also an antirevolutionary force.
Sex was among the approved pleasures, pure animal sex divorced from affection, from love. Sex between members of the New Race was also divorced from reproduction; they were engineered to be sterile.
Each new man and woman owed his or her existence to the direct action of Victor. The family was an antirevolutionary institution. Family fostered emotion.
Victor trusted no one but Victor to create life only for purely intellectual, solely rational reasons. Life from the lab will one day entirely replace life from the loins.
Shower completed, Erika opened the door of the stall, fished a towel from the nearby rack, stepped onto the bath mat—and discovered that she’d had a visitor. The splash of water and the clouds of steam had masked the movements of the intruder.
On the mat lay a scalpel. Stainless steel. Sparkling.
The scalpel must be one of Victor’s. He owned collections of surgical instruments acquired at various times during his two-century crusade.
Victor, however, had not put this blade on her bath mat. Nor had any member of the household staff. Someone else had been here. Something else.
Steam swirled around her. Yet she shivered.
FOLLOWING THEIR STOP at the morgue, Michael made a play for the car keys, but Carson as usual took the wheel.
“You drive too slow,” she told him.
“You drive too asleep.”
“I’m fine. I’m cool.”
“You’re both,” he agreed, “but you’re not fully awake.”
“Unconscious, I wouldn’t drive as slow as you.”
“Yeah, see, I don’t want to test that claim.”
“You sound like your father’s a safety engineer or something.”
“You know he’s a safety engineer,” Michael said.
“What’s a safety engineer do, anyway?”
“He engineers safety”
“Life is inherently unsafe.”
“That’s why we need safety engineers.”
“You sound like probably your mother was obsessed with safe toys when you were growing up.”
“As you know perfectly well, she’s a product-safety analyst.”
“God, you must have had a boring childhood. No wonder you wanted to be a cop, get shot at, shoot back.”
Michael sighed. “None of this has anything to do with whether you’re fit to drive or not.”
“I am not only fit to drive,” Carson said, “I am God’s gift to Louisiana highways.”
“I hate it when you get like this.”
“I am what I am.”
“What you are, Popeye, is stubborn.”
“Look who’s talking—a guy who will never accept that a woman can drive better than he can.”
“This isn’t a gender thing, and you know it.”
“I’m female. You’re male. It’s a gender thing.”
“It’s a nut thing,” he said. “You’re nuts, I’m not, so I ought to drive. Carson, really, you need sleep.”
“I can sleep when I’m dead.”
The day’s agenda consisted of several interviews with